


Burden

by backwards_wordsmith



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-04-21
Packaged: 2018-03-25 02:03:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3792457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/backwards_wordsmith/pseuds/backwards_wordsmith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the little things, each a hammer's fall that shaped her armour into what it was. But it was tiring to wear such heavy armour, and it was always easier to carry each other’s burdens, anyway. (Mention/reference of past sexual harassment)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Burden

The Iron Bull could see, very clearly, what people needed. It was kind of his thing - you had to know these things about a person to be able to manipulate them. But he didn’t want to manipulate Marra. She’d see right through it, and likely be very angry about it. She wasn’t the kind who appreciated others trying to control her. Even those higher up in the echelon knew that about her, and stepped around her carefully when giving commands. 

She was always willing to help people, always eager to work and to accomplish things, but she did not take well to authority. Bull had to admit, he loved that about her. Her head was almost as hard as his own, the only difference being her humanity. They tended to be a little more delicate than Qunari. Her strong will clashed with her appearance - she was layered with muscle and fat, coming from a wealthier sort of family - sometimes violently.

What fascinated Bull was that she harnessed that violence beautifully. He had seen her tear men to bloody shreds with an axe she pulled from a Red Templar’s body, and an hour later wash blood out of someone else’s hair. Her hands were small and soft, but he had seen her heft men twice her size and carry them from the battlefield.

She was interesting, no one could deny. Especially not the men Bull saw eyeing her. She had heavy, bouncing breasts, rolls of fat over her wide hips, thick thighs he had seen cord with muscle in the midst of bloody combat, and calves round as dinner plates. And her face - gods above and below and everywhere else, her face would make the Elven gods weep with joy. It could tame dragons and bring kings to their knees. Round and sweet, soft and unyielding. A small nose, full lips, round reddened cheeks and wide eyes. They appeared brown, most of the time, but Bull had seen them piercing and vibrant, greener than grass. On one occasion, under lamplight, they were gold. 

And when she laughed, it was infectious enough to draw mirth from Cassandra. An accomplishment, but the Seeker seemed to enjoy her company. Everyone did, just about. Some of the older men, of the Chantry mostly, didn’t appreciate her. And she didn’t appreciate them. Bull knew why - she was very much aware of men’s eyes on her, of their greedy hands and fake words. Varric had kept her from throttling a man for touching her back. The dwarf had held her back long enough for her to draw herself back, away, in. She was above that man, and all the men like him. Bull knew, and he knew she would never agree.

She worked in all sorts of capacities - sometimes, she worked the forge, like her family had. She was good at it, could bend metal like she bent weaker wills. Sometimes, she led a crew in rebuilding Skyhold. They had never had a problem with a section of wall under her command. Bull had seen her bandage wounds and train with the soldiers, had seen her hunt, gather herbs, administer medicine, keep the stables, and ease the passing of the dying. He had never seen anyone touch her, except Varric. The dwarf seemed to be able to touch her in a friendly, easy manner that she would not allow anyone else to do. A hand on the shoulder, on the forearm - a pat on the back, a back or shoulder rub when she was especially tired, a shoulder bump, a shoulder lean. She allowed him to be familiar with her. Bull wondered how he did it. It was obvious she did not like men. To Bull, it was obvious why.

It wasn’t that she had been raped, or beaten, by a man. Or even many men. It was a lifetime of the small things, the looks, the gestures, the underestimation, the leers, the jokes. She had grown tired of it long ago, and could look into the heart of a man through his words, his tone. Bull wondered what she saw through his.

He could be subtle, was great at lying, but he knew she’d appreciate a straightforward and respectful approach. So, he asked her.

“You can see through words to the heart. I’ve been wondering, what do you see in mine?”

“Well,” she blinked. His speaking to her was a novelty - she’d seen him around, certainly, had never seemed to mind him. “You’re very intelligent.” Usually, that was not the first thing people noticed about him. Sometimes the third, or fifth. “And very loyal. To those who have earned it. Like your Chargers, and the Inquisitor.” She cleared her throat. Her eyes, wide and open and taking in everything, always, had met his unerringly, unflinchingly. He felt it somewhere along his spine, in the form of a nervous shiver he had always associated with assassins, rogues sneaking up from behind. They saw him, saw through him to his organs and vitals things, and so did she. “And you’re really quite clever.”

“You already said that,” he mock-complained, with a smile he was quite sure was friendly.

“No, I said you’re intelligent. Clever is when you know how to use intelligence to your advantage, whether in yourself or someone else.”

“Never heard it put like that.”

“Yes, well. Also, you’re a big, mean-looking bastard with a big weapon, which I assume is so people don’t see the clever.”

“Ooh.” His smile widened. “You’re good.”

“I have to be.” Her voice was dry.

“Yeah.” He nodded once. “If anyone tries something and you don’t feel like getting in trouble, I can. They don’t have handcuffs big enough for my wrists.”

She laughed, and waved it off. “I can take care of myself, The Iron Bull.”

“You don’t have to, though.” He shrugged. “If ever it gets too exhausting, you know where to find me.”

“Wherever I hear the frustrated cries of your Chargers?”

“Or the screams of my enemies,” he countered, grinning. 

“Right.”

A little, tiny spark of interest he knew very well. Probably only there because he wasn’t a man - he was a Qunari, a horned giant twice their size and four times their intelligence, six times their strength and twelve times their value. And he knew to treat a woman like a person.

He initiated contact with her as much as he could - that meaning as much as she could. He left it up to her. Most days, she was irritated, tired, sick, busy. Some days, slower days, she’d see him and smile, and he’d talk to her. Joke, draw laughs from her lungs, watch her heavy breasts when they bounced on her chest. He wondered how soft they would feel, how faded the stretch marks might be. And he’d check himself, because he wanted, needed her to know he was not a man, he did not see her as a conquest. He was fascinated with her, sure, and found her quite attractive - who didn’t? - and he’d let her know that when they were at that point, when she wouldn’t see it as an attack, but the invitation that he’d be extending to her whenever possible.

As it turned out, she did have quite a problem with some of the men from Ferelden. Not all were as courteous and kind as the Commander. Thankfully, not many weren’t, either. Enough to be a bother to Marra, and that was the only provocation The Iron Bull needed to step up. As in, Bull signaled, and Krem stood up and knocked his chair back with a kick the moment Marra scowled cruelly at one of them. She had his arm in her hand already, and had broken his wrist with a sharp twist, but the Bull was angry, and staring down the entire tavern even though his eye was on her.

“Anyone feels like fucking with a Charger, they can come see me.” Krem placed a foot on the edge of his table. 

Bull knew she’d see that kind of gesture from Bull as him trying to take possession of her - no, that wasn’t the right word. It would be like he saw her as incapable of defending herself, of fighting her own battles. Krem, she knew. Marra knew his story, knew where he was coming from, and would see it from Krem as solidarity, as a hand extending in friendship and mutual understanding. And she seemed thankful for it. If only because it meant she didn’t have to draw blood to prove her point. The men backed off, very quickly, because Bull was still staring at them, lips pulled up in a sneer.

And he kept talking to her, inviting, soft, like he was drawing a wild animal out of its cave. And, in a way, he was. She was defensive, from a lifetime of being attacked, but he would not attack her. If she wanted, he’d lay down and let her tear his lungs from his body. He wanted to feel her soft skin, her heartbeat, her breath. He wanted her to want him to feel it. She needed a shelter.

She was tired, and looking at her, it was obvious. Most thought it was because she was always working. Always doing something useful, always helping people and rebuilding things and smoothing over harsh words said in desperation. But she was tired, really, because she was constantly on the defensive, never letting anyone pull anything out of her. She was too used to being me against them when really it was us against them, us being her, The Iron Bull, the Bull’s Chargers, Seeker Cassandra, Varric Tethras (and Bianca) and Cole and everyone who she had ever smiled at. But she didn’t see it, couldn’t let herself see it because then she’d no longer be able to defend herself, so Bull offered, in every way he knew, to be her shelter. A soft bed, a hot meal, a good story, a warm body, whatever she needed. He needed to be that for her. Needed to know he could be that.

It took a long time, relatively speaking. Normally when he made eyes at a woman, she’d be in his bed the same night. Gone the next morning, which he did not want with Marra. He wanted to wake up and find her unwilling to leave. He wanted to see her wake, stretch, hear her groan at the morning sun and roll over, reach for him with soft hands and messy hair. He wanted to satisfy her so completely it lasted until the morning, wanted her to laze in his bed, limbs loose and movements slow.

“You seem a little quieter than usual,” he said. They were in their corner of the fortress, surrounded by the Charger’s tents. The Chargers were, oddly, occupied elsewhere, though Dalish had an eye on them and their surroundings, and every now and then Grim would glance over, eyes hard. The quiet man liked Marra for her understanding smile and gentle touch. There was a fire here, logs to sit on and rocks to lean against.

Marra shrugged. “I’m tired.”

“Not from your busy day,” he said. “Well, you did have a very busy day, but that’s not why you’re tired. It goes deeper than that.”

“Further back, too.” She shrugged again, and leaned back against a rock.

“Talk to me,” Bull prompted.

So she did. She spoke of comments, of a slow-building anger fueled by years of condescension and inappropriate touches and looks. She spoke of the time she beat a man nearly to death for slapping her rear, of being sent away to live with her cousins, where she learned to blacksmith, and of learning to fight specifically to piss off the men in the village who said she couldn’t.

“I used to hate being fat,” she said. “It makes me look soft and weak. Now I like it, because honestly, food is delicious, and people underestimate me and it’s quite funny the kind of face a man’ll get when you hoist him over your head and throw him into the wall.”

Bull laughed at that. “Ever put a man through a wall?”

“No, thought not for lack of trying. Too many stone walls around.”

Bull hummed his agreement. “Mm, ever get tired of it?”

“Fighting people? Or fighting to be recognized as a person?”

“The second one.”

“Yes.” She didn’t sugar coat, except dessert. “But I don’t really have a choice.”

“You could take a break every now and then.”

“What, and let someone else fight my battles?” She snorted.

“No.” Bull drew out the word. “I meant that sometimes, you need to put it all down for a few hours. It can get tiring to carry something like that all the time.”

She turned her head to look at him more fully. “How would you know?”

“I’m Tal-Vashoth. I abandoned the Qun. To you, that probably doesn’t mean much, but-”

“Well. It sort of does. I read about it.” She nodded.

“Did you?” Bull asked. “I’m interested to know where you read it.”

“My cousin collected old books. A couple were in another language, but I could read the one about the Qun. There were some anecdotes about Qunari, and Tal-Vashoth.” She sighed again. “I kind of see where you’re coming from with that. I mean, I couldn’t grasp it fully because I’m not Qunari, I never followed the Qun and there’s not really an equivalent in Andrastian faith.”

“Not really.” He scratched at the base of a horn. “Like I was saying - sometimes you need to put it down for a bit.”

“Letting a tavern girl use you isn’t putting it down,” she said quietly.

“That isn’t for me. If you ever want to put yours down for a while, you know where to find me.”

She found him a while later, almost two months, after they had continued along the path of companionship for a while, to the point where he could be familiar with her like Varric was and she’d welcome it and appreciate it for the friendly affection it gave her. Varric was appreciative of it, too - the dwarf was concerned for her, the tiredness always in her eyes that matched what was in his own. Aged beyond her years, by her own intelligence and will.

Marra found him in a room designed for him, one that he was using now only so she could find him whenever she wanted. His Chargers teased him for it, but very wisely did not tease her. She would not take it as teasing.

She didn’t seem very comfortable at first, but she wanted it, made it very clear she did. He went slowly, let her control most things, made sure she was comfortable and enjoying his touches, attentions. She warmed up to him, and by the time the moon shone through his window, she was blushing from her cheeks to her chest to her shoulder to her thighs. Her pale skin, soft and sensitive, showed it off wonderfully. The night was cold, but Bull kept her warm - she seemed to enjoy it a lot when he ran a massive hand over her body, curving to meet it and making soft noises of pleasure. When he didn’t touch her, she would prompt it, pulling his hand to her stomach and pulling it up, over a breast to her throat.

And oh, when she was ready for him, when she was breathless and blushing and slick, she braced her hands on his chest, and straddled him. He almost made a joke (“Everyone wants to ride the bull,”) but held it back, and watched her. Her mouth was open and he could nearly hear her thrumming with pleasure. And then she used a hand to guide him into her, and she moaned as he slid in and tightened around him, and he could see tears at the corners of her eyes, but oh she was enjoying it.

“You’re so big,” she sighed, and rolled forward, moving her body like a snake. She pulled his hands to her knees and he slid them slowly over her chilled skin, and she made a noise somewhere between moaning and begging. He slid them up, over her thighs, and settled them on her hips, around her waist, and his fingers met around her back. She was making noises he’d rarely heard before, absolute ecstasy and needing and wanting.

It took only a few minutes for her to reach climax, without him teasing her, touching her intimately, without even a word from him. She was so tight around him, it was only her slick arousal and his willingness to hand the reins over for all four horses that had her nice and comfortable. And oh, when she came, it was hard to keep himself from following. She let out the most wonderful cries, among them his name, and leaned forward, and teared up, and at the end of it all she could do was ride it out, let it wash over her and fade off. When she lifted herself off him, slowly, his thick erection slid out of her and she let out a little “Oh,” at the sight and he knew, he knew she had him.

And, then, she let him take her on her back. Encouraged it, pulling his hips forward, begging, “Please, Bull.” He stretched her legs out, was careful not to thrust too hard because a little pain, she liked, but not too much. Not too harsh. He kept his thrusts quick, shallow. He was above her, hands braced on the mattress to either side of her, and she clung to his arms. Her legs were in the hair and she opened them as wide as she could, inviting him, letting him in, and oh was it wonderful. And, again, she came, her thighs tight around his hips, fingers nearly bruising his arms, and when she came back down from the high, she went lax, head rolling against the pillow. 

Her hands found his neck, caressing his thick skin, and the coarse hairs on his face, and then exploring the base of his horns. His own release shuddered through him, and when it let him go, he went down to his elbows, pressing her into the mattress. She didn’t seem to mind. He took the opportunity to carefully rub his cheek against the soft skin of her temple and she sighed. He lifted his hips, saw her eyes go to watch. He was coated in viscous fluid, a mix of her arousal and his release, and the sight seemed to arouse her, but she let it go, and he did too, because he could see she was exhausted - satisfied - and it was always easier to carry each other’s burdens, anyway.


End file.
